Embers
by BizarreSerenity
Summary: Talia wakes after sleeping with Bruce Wayne, and is left to delve into her scarred psyche. Balia, BanexTalia. Rated M.


The moment she opened her eyes and found Bruce Wayne gone, the magnitude of what Talia had done hit her full force, born in the form of a tightness in her throat, and a hot stinging behind her eyes.

"_God."_

She wanted to retch as she clutched the blankets to herself to hide her nakedness, cloth that smelled of sex, sweat, and the expensive cologne that Bruce wore. The fire flickered feebly, warmth licking at her numb skin, and she took a deep, shuddering breath.

"_What have I done?"_

She staggered up, into a standing position, her hands gripping the warm stone mantle of the fireplace. Mechanically, she started to move, gathering her clothes, her shoes, before dressing herself. The whispering of Miranda Tate's expensive undergarments made her want to break something, to tear everything asunder with her bare hands, but she managed to don her now dry but wrinkled ensemble without harming herself, or anything around her.

The layout of Wayne Manor was familiar to her. How many hours had she spent pouring over stolen blueprints and floor plans, of satellite photos? And yet she found herself lost, wandering through countless corridors filled with covered furniture until she finally found her way, back to the door that she had helped break open.

Talia tried hard not to think. She was knowledgeable in the ways of numbing one's mind, of smothering thoughts and emotions. Cold, raw logic was what she needed, but she shoved that away, instead arranging her long, mussed curls into a modest coil with the pins that she kept tucked into her handbag, a handbag worth a small fortune much like the high heeled shoes that she had to wear.

She managed to keep herself together during the drive to Miranda Tate's apartment, driving the luxury Mercedes calmly and quietly. She kept her focus on the roads, on the rain that still beat forcefully on the city, on the calls of seagulls and the roar of the populace. She counted her heartbeats, her breaths, the number of times she blinked.

And then, as she unlocked her door and stepped into Miranda Tate's dark apartment, the thoughts and logic all came crashing back.

_She had to gain Bruce Wayne's trust._

_If he did not trust her, how could she obtain Wayne Enterprises?_

_She had done everything._

_Everything but __**one**__ thing._

_She could hurt him._

_She could __**HURT **__him, crush him at his lowest moment with the knowledge that they had been so __**close**__, so in __**love.**__ He would die inside knowing that he had given her __**everything,**__ his greatest enemy. _

_She could fulfill her father's destiny._

_She could have her revenge at last, after years and years of work and waiting and insanity._

_She had to._

_There was no other choice._

And yet, at that moment, standing alone in Miranda Tate's dark, lavish apartment, Talia could think of a thousand other choices she could have made, a million other words she could have said.

Talia had convinced herself, tricked herself, reasoned until she had reached her lowest point.

_All for a father who knew nothing of your existence for half of your life, in turn betraying the very man you loved most in the process._

Her traitor mind broke free at last, and she wanted to _scream,_ but kept her jaw clamped shut.

It was over.

Done.

There was no changing what she had chosen, no undoing what she had done.

But it wasn't _his_ scent that clung to her skin, and she wanted all memory of him _gone._

Like a wild, mad thing, she ripped her silken blouse from her chest, the ivory fabric parting easily beneath her hands. She threw it to the ground before ripping the ebony pins from her hair, her heavy curls falling down her back as she kicked off her ridiculous matching stilettos.

She left a trail of silk scraps behind her on the way to the bathroom, made mostly of the remains of her skirt and undergarments. The scent on her skin was stifling, _disgusting._

She could still feel his _touch_ on her _skin._

The water wasn't nearly hot enough in the shower but Talia made do, and scrubbed herself until her skin was red and raw, stinging even as the hot water finally ran out and turned icy, until all she could smell was the vanilla body was that was Miranda Tate, and even then, in the place where she usually found herself wishing for simple things, of gentler fare and things not so luxurious, she could not stop the thoughts.

_I am a whore. I am a whore for this cause, this revenge I have wanted so long. I have given everything and I have nothing to show for it except for the shame. The shame and the revulsion. _

_He will never forgive me._

_I do not deserve forgiveness._

_He will know it the moment he sees me again._

_He will see the shame._

The water was cold, but the tile floor was colder. She crouched there, under the flow, teeth chattering. Her hair was a long, sopping mass that stuck to her cheeks, shoulders, her neck and breasts. Somehow, she could still smell a hint of that horrid aftershave, still feel hands on her hips, the curve of her shoulder. It was sick, perverse, _wrong._

Talia did not know how to make it right. She did not know how to fix this _thing, _the feeling of hollowness and shame, the fear that was hot behind her eyes. She could not remember the last time she had felt fear, not with the shadow of her protector at her back, his strength by her side.

She sobbed aloud, beating feebly at the beautiful blue tiles beneath her. She would no longer feel the comfort of his arms, the feel of his bare skin against hers, hear the metallic rumble that was his voice. She would not feel him beside her at night, pressed close, to keep the nightmares away.

Talia was a grown woman, but the knowledge that her oldest friend, the man who had raised her, trained with her, taken care of her, would soon be lost to her was unbearable.

_I can't blame him. _

Yes, there was the logic.

The cold, severe logic that came with being The Demonhead.

Yes, The Demonhead. She had forgotten her title for a span of time, but not when she had lain _(God forgive me) _with Bruce Wayne. She had pushed it onto herself, those words, used them as an excuse to try and justify her actions.

To make them bearable.

_He will leave me and I won't blame him, because I've done the very thing he would have never expected me to do. _

_And I will fall apart, because I am nothing without him._

_None of this means anything without him._

_The fire will not rise._

_It will be smothered, and by my own doing._

Eventually, the hot water returned.

How much time had passed? How long had Talia spent curled up on the shower floor, her thoughts running wild? She started to rise, but her muscles protested instantly, cramping as she stood, leaning against the frosted glass of the door for support, clutching at the handle.

She stood, steam rising in clouds, fogging up the surface, waiting for the aches and twinges to fade. She let the scalding water flow over her stinging skin for a few moments before switching it off and exiting the bathroom.

She did not bother with towels or the robe she usually slipped on after her bath, instead stumbling straight into bed. It was much too large for her, obnoxiously spacious. Just another status symbol, another wasteful display of wealth. The silken bedsheets did a poor job of warming her, but she cared nothing for comfort.

She lay huddled there among the feather pillows, gripping one with sharp nails that bit into the soft pillowcase and held. She laid there, shivering, and knew that it hadn't just been the cold water, or laying on the tiled floor for so long. Her thoughts refused to quiet, to settle.

Talia knew that in time her body would exhaust itself, and that she would slip into sleep.

She dreamed of The Pit.

Of being a child again, small, malnourished, curled In her protector's arms as she slept. Her scalp was shorn to prevent lice and the secret of her sex, her body-shape concealed by loose raggedy tunics and trousers. She dreamed of nights spent listening to his voice before it had been altered, deep, strong, of the stories of gods and their children.

The climb was always fresh in her dreams, the stone harsh beneath her hands. _Little One, _he had called her, _Dove. _She had flown that day with his last words stuck fast in her heart.

_Goodbye._

She remembered that hell with near fondness. That first decade of her life had been filled with nothing but the will to survive. There was nothing but that, no power-plays, no politics, no evening gowns and billionaires to seduce.

There had only been _Little One_ and her Protector, the sweet sounds of Farsi and Arabic crooned and whispered in the dead of night when she awoke to the screams of the prisoners, the snapping of the rope, the cries of _Deshi Basara._

The nights had been cold and hungry, but they had been together in their cell, taking comfort in what they had.

When Talia woke, he stood beside her bed, looming over her with outstretched hands.

She was instantly brought back to the dozens of times he had entered Miranda Tate's apartment to slip into her bed in the dark of night, under the cover of shadow.

_His hands are always warm, God, Iwishiwishiwish-_

She cringed away from him, huddled at the head of her bed, her hair a damp tangle of curls down her back,hanging in her eyes. He would smell Wayne on her, Talia was sure. He would know that she had touched her, _had_ her.

Up until that night, Talia had known no man's touch but the one who had helped her Rise so many years ago.

The sheets rustled, and the mattress dipped with the weight of him. Panic surged in her veins, turning her blood to ice, and she couldn't breathe, couldn't _move._

His hands were just as warm as she knew they would be, just as strong.

"_Bane."_

His name was drawn out into a pleading sob that was raw with shame as his large hands clamped gently over her wrists. He drew her to him, pressed her to his chest so tightly that she could feel the lines of muscle, the ragged ropes of scar tissue.

"I have never deserved you." She whispered, muffled by the pure mass of him. His arms closed tightly around her, the arms that had cradled her since the men in The Pit had ripped her from her mother's arms, screaming, biting, kicking as they raped and beat her to death.

_He knows._

He had to have known what she had done.

Bane said nothing. His breath was the only sound that he made, the soothing, even inhales and exhales heavy behind the cage of his mask. He held her, stroked her hair away from her face, and Talia let herself be held.

Shame was still seething beneath her skin, climbing her bones and twining around her veins like a poisonous vine, flowers of self-loathing blooming as he pressed her back against the pillows, staring into her eyes.

His were dark, nearly black. She could see him even in the thick darkness of her bedroom; they had been born in it and reborn together, could see one another clearly as others saw in the daytime.

In those eyes Talia saw forgiveness, but she also saw the fierce possessiveness there, the hunger, and the rage. Bane would kill Bruce Wayne despite any order that she gave him, although Talia knew her lover well enough to be confident in the fact that he would wait until the opportune moment to do so.

Bane took her slowly. Gently. They were fierce lovers, but on this night, she was savored and explored anew, much like their first coupling had been so many years ago in the Himalayas, back in the Temple that had once housed The League of Shadows. His hands smoothed over her skin, erasing the traces of Wayne's touch, leaving fiery trails and brands in their wake.

He wanted her to watch him. She knew that she did. Talia surrendered herself, and came shivering, shuddering, crying into his arms, her cheek pressed against his even as hot tears scalded them, his name falling from her lips as fire bloomed to life, gold, red, orange dancing before her in an inferno.

And in that inferno was Bane, his black eyes filled with a loathing she could never come to understand, tinged with passion and love, of things that had been forgiven and grudges that would forever be held.

Later, she would close her eyes and sleep beside him, sated, and healed.

But in that moment she basked in the fire, and let it burn her, smothering her in ashes until she rose, keening, arms wrapped tightly and skin aflame.


End file.
